I am a widely-published fiction writer and poet. I write to discover the world and our place in it. I am wishful my work exhibits a proper dose of hyperbole. A sense of discovery, irony, and wryness and misadventures in wild metaphors, paradox, symbols, free associations, non-sequiturs, and an enduring sense of beauty and what we hold sacred.

12/25/2017

Ernest Slyman http://profile.typepad.com/6p01a73d76eb1c970d Humorous tales of a small southern town called Bristol. Fables of farmlife and country music. Writing influenced by Edward Lear and Lewis Carroll. Guitars that feud with fiddles. Children who turn into pigs. Church bells that talk. Cornbread that tells the truth. Butter that sings like Hank...
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12/16/2017

I’m State Street. I live in Bristol between the Virginia Side and Tennessee. Like most streets I don’t stand in one place. My long legs stretch for miles. Always get compliments on my high heels — sometimes I wear pumps. Spike heels make me look taller. Just hate it when...
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07/29/2017

“It all comes down to respecting cows. What cows say is important. If they say good morning, you’ve got to turn around, look them in the face and wave. Say good morning back to the cow. It’s a small thing. But cows don’t like to be ignored. They mean well.”...
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“I heard a good morning moo yesterday. It changed my life. I was all sad about my potatoes and beans. The corn was droopy. The spinach was depressed about the lack of rain. Lord, the peas and carrots had just about had enough. They was bored. The good morning moo...
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07/25/2017

It’s the most precious thing a cow owns. The good morning moo has many things that recommend it. Flattery is the good morning moo’s goal. It wants every farmer in Bristol to know how it loves them. From the top of their heads to the bottoms of their shoes. The...
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06/12/2017

What lies beneath shimmers up and grasps the eye like a fish and tosses it into the sea. The cold wind blows and lifts a page. The ship rocks to and fro, teetering in my hand. The swells, the surge, the sunlit undulating waves roll and roll, beat against my...
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06/04/2017

A french pastry shop in Greenwich Village was where I met Sonya. She boasted of the raspberry tart. A sweet, scrumptious round treat. Berries on top of custard and a golden crust. She spoke highly of the round delicacy. She boasted this was her eighth raspberry tart. At first bite,...
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05/31/2017

When I was all of ten I fell in love with him. He had birds that lived in his words. And they tweeted, flew around my living room. Perched on a picture of Gainsborough’s ‘Blue Boy.’ A tall rectangle with his boy inside, posing for the picture in a blue...
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Flew around Mrs Mumpower’s backyard. Perch on the clothesline. It began speaking its amens. As to what subject the bird was agreeing with, no one seemed to know. The dog assumed the bird was showing its appreciation for the blue sky. Or it could’ve been something the wind said. Or...
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04/21/2017

When the morning sky climbs up the willow tree, it’s a special occasion. The morning sky don’t jump down unless it wants to show off — run all over Sullivan County showing everybody its new blue dress, high heels, kerchief, that charming lantern with that wick flickering like it was...
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